I sweat in swirls as pressure hangs from beams
like floating cobwebs
(This hip leans, it has supported many clouds ten months each)
The room compresses, sanity squeezes her walls in humility
The ceiling drops fast as fast, as water burns
Hold, hold harder, as bones stretch their horizontal flanges
thick as rubber and contract in minute vibrations
The thought is jammed, I shake, shake like a silver rattler
and fear trembles down my back, a habitual epilepsy in circles
What is for dinner tonight?
(I did not answer the doorbell this afternoon. I think the postman left a note)
Grandma died honey. She left you with negatives and an earring.
Worries stack up neat, cross section where stress concentrates most
like colorful lego pieces, incompatible with each other
A child is complaining of an ear ache. I think of cancer. Death!
It’s a hot summer day. I am cold.
My pillow is a garden bench. My skin my sheet. ( I hand washed them today)
Sleep was when I never had children. Now I have my one eye open.
I turn to Eliot I stole from the library. (And some wine).
‘Those who suffer the ecstasy of the animals, meaning
Sexton passed away on November 9th. A day after my birthday.
Organic is good they say, these days.
Only I cannot afford bread, but wine is cheap.
It buys me sanity in temporary refills.
Coins nag this head, like an old lady with Tourette in long necklaces
Again and again, the thoughts mutate and
stronger they get immune to rastafarians
It’s a dreary world out there, damn
those who talk in their sleep, dont need bedtime stories
Look under, I exist, inside your foam mattress and silver linen
A bedbug never shies when you dream
Ever do you imagine?
Why my hands tremble slightly more than yesterday?
My skin wrinkles faster than peaches?
Stop talking to me. instead tell me fat lies
dunked in cookies and cream
My needs grumble like a cat left out
along the rinds of my belly, too long. And now they meet.
Fasting cleanses, cause or not, I detox fundamentally
and that adulterant white foam enters my teeth
reaching inferno eyes and liquid lips
I have lost 1 inch 1 hunch, my animal instincts
ringing church gongs inside my mouth…
and this hysteric soul’s cries recycle
through countless bottles and cans
filling white linings of wastebaskets,
smoky eyes mugged clean white again.
Tonight let me sleep. Turning my back.
This piece appeared in ‘quiet Shorts’ magazine in June 2012 in print form.
.”Yagni is a multi-faceted creative artist. She has been writing poetry since her very early years. Her poems have appeared in The Copperfield Review, Danse Macabre and UK’s Forward Poetry. A playwright, actor and director, she also writes a quirky blog huffspuffswickedlaughs.blogspot.com. A wife, and mother to two beautiful children, Yagni resides in southern California”.